Legend 31

I talk to Old Maker.
Fire my witness,
my breathe.
Pipe, too,
sacred weed or
buffalo-calf-bleed,
moon (a skull,
a white, bloodless thing.
But source of medicine
and mothering,
Silver Queen corn
and scarred knees.)


Lore, Lore, Lore

Legend 36

I abided in Her
mystical body,
turning like a fetus
between her legs.

Smell of good mud
and fox
and blood.
Basil, thyme, sage.


Womb, Womb, Womb

Legend 42

One whole turning
of the year.
The shadows of his arms,
the shape of thunderbird.
Blowed full of religion.
Bring offerings,
glory songs.
Baskets of harvest pears:
living prayers and love.


Fruit, Fruit, Fruit

April Bulmer is an award-winning poet who has published ten books of poetry. The poems published here are from a m.s. called ROUGE inspired by some of the native men she worked with in an Ontario jail (close to the Six Nations Reserve.) April lives in Cambridge, Ontario.

Email: April Bulmer

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